A Missing Link, Part 1: The Kanto Academy
by Zootower
Summary: Two years prior to Ash's journey, The Pokemon League is in crisis. Gym Leaders Sabrina and Jasmine have resigned their posts, and Elite Four member Phoebe has disappeared. To add insult to injury, Team Rocket has taken a League official hostage in Guyana. All roads of inquiry seem to have a common thread: an elusive trainer by the name of Lawrence Holden. What secret does he hold?
1. 1: Behind the Sun

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Pokemon and don't wish to.

CHAPTER ONE:

**BEHIND THE SUN**

The interrogation room was illuminated by an old fluorescent fixture that had been flickering incessantly since Lawrence arrived. Without a watch or sunlight, it was impossible for him to tell just how long he had been sitting in this cold, eerie space — but he guessed that it had been at least an hour's wait, if not more. It didn't take much effort to figure out that this was probably part of the plan: a waiting tactic devised to upset him, maybe even to rile him up. Unfortunately for them, he was neither upset or riled. He was merely alone — a state of reality that was enough to some put some people ill at ease, but by no means foreign or unwelcome to him. This was an opportunity to lose himself for a bit, to retreat into a world of thought. A much-needed reprise. After closing his eyes, Lawrence quickly busied his mental faculties with a task: figuring out who actually had the audacity to lock him up.

Well, he knew it was the League behind this, of course. When the Auditor showed up his doorstep flanked by two policemen and serving an immediate subpoena, there could be no doubt. They barely gave him enough time to dress his youthful, lanky frame and comb his unkempt blonde hair. But the real, pressing question was "who" in the sense of a person — no mid-level magistrate could concoct a reasoning valid enough to haul him in. This must have come from the very top.

_ Someone must have found out._

As those words reverberated in his thoughts, he heard the door creak. Opening his eyes, he saw two figures enter the room. A League Officer quickly closed the interrogation room's door behind them. The two figures stepped into the weak fluorescent light, revealing themselves to Lawrence.

"Do you know why you're here, criminal?"

With those words, Lawrence didn't even need to look up. Those bellowing words couldn't come from any other voice — a voice so unique that Lawrence's eyes didn't need deceive him. It was Lance, the Dragon Master. Champion of Johto and Kanto. One of the most powerful trainers to walk the Earth. Et cetera, et cetera. None of these facts bothered Lawrence. In fact, he was glad it was Lance. Lance possessed an immense amount of talent for Pokemon training — but little else. Critical thinking wasn't Lance's strong suit. He may have gotten away with this yet.

Lawrence's eyes turned to the second figure. And then a lump made itself felt in the pit of his stomach. Steven. Hoenn's champion. Son and Heir to the Elder Stone of Devon Corporation. One of the most astute trainers to ever challenge the Elite Four, a master of both raw strength and the feint. Lawrence could talk his way through Lance's obtuse and bone-headed inquiries. He had no idea how to play Steven. He needed to keep Lance going.

"I was subpoenaed, if I recall correctly." Lawrence finally answered. Lance shook his head.

"We don't have time for this." Lance responded, eyes on Steven instead of Lawrence.

Lance's hand dropped to his belt, where several Poke-Balls rested, held by magnets.

"Now, now." Steven began, resting his hands on Lance's arm. He then turned and dragged a chair from the corner of the room, lining it up with the table. He sat.

"I'm not going to lock you up, if that's what you're thinking."

Lawrence frowned. _Why play that hand so early?_

"Then why am I here?"

"Because we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"And if I don't answer?"

Steven exhaled deeply.

"Then Lance is going to have you monitored by League agents every second of every day until he gets the answers he wants."

"That sounds like a horrendous waste of resources."

"I agree. That's why I figured I'd just bring you here to get your side of things."

"Against my will?"

"Lance was very particular about the time frame."

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, and focused his eyes on Lance.

"Well?" He asked.

Lance looked surprised for just a moment, and then frowned deeply. A reddish pall worked his way across his cheeks.

"W-Well what, you criminal?"

"You wanted to ask me some questions, according to Steven."

Steven suppressed a chuckle.

"Well, there you go, Lance. Ask away."

Lance produced a small manilla folder that he had been holding behind his back with his right hand, and tossed it onto the desk, retreating back into the shadow of a dim-lit corner. Steven proceeded to open the folder, which contained what looked like three dossiers. He arranged all three of the dossiers on the desk so that Lawrence could see them. Lawrence frowned when he saw the three names in bold red print.

_Sabrina Natsume_

_Jasmine Mikan_

_Phoebe Fuyo_

Lawrence looked up from the dossiers. Steven raised an eyebrow.

"Jasmine and Sabrina are Gym leaders working under Lance. Phoebe is one of my Elite Four members. All three of them quit their positions within twenty four hours of each other last week. And you know all that."

"I do?"

"Of course you do!" Lance piped up from his corner. He approached the table.

"We hired a private investigator to look through their records. Totally parallel lives, those three. Never met each other before, trained different types of Pokemon, grew up and competed in different leagues. There's only one link between those three, and guess who it is?"

Lawrence shrugged. "I was never good at these sort of games."

Lance clenched his fist.

"Fuck. You." Lance spat. "Where are my Gym Leaders?"

"You're implying I took them."

"Yes, I am."

"They resigned of their own accord. They filed their resignations with the league offices in-person."

"And how do you know that?" Lance asked, elated.

Lawrence smiled. _He must think this is his "gotcha! "moment._

"Because it's in the dossier."

Lance's face whitened considerably. Lawrence pointed it out on each document. It was the last line in the dossiers, recording the date, location and time of their resignations. Lance quickly gathered the documents and returned to his corner.

Steven cleared his throat.

"I'm not accusing you of anything like kidnapping," He began, "but the commonality in each of these dossiers links to you. You can't expect us to not investigate when three of our premiere staff all go silent on the same day."

Lawrence straightened up in his seat. He could imagine where this was going.

"Then why do you want to hear my side of things? It would seem that you've already reached a conclusion."

Steven raised a finger.

"Well, Lance seems quite convinced, but I'm not so sure." Steven ran a hand through his silver hair. "I must admit I thought it was you until I noticed that you had been out of touch with them as long as you had. But that isn't enough to clear you off my personal list of suspects."

"Suspected of what crime, exactly?"

"Well, Lance is ready to haul you into court for obstruction of justice."

"With what evidence?"

Steven shrugged.

"This interview, I would guess, if you refuse to cooperate. I'd imagine he's got some other evidence, too, if that fails."

"So then why should I cooperate?"

"Because I've made a deal with him to let you walk if you do."

Lawrence's eyes turned to Lance, who now had his back turned. They returned to Steven.

"So what exactly do you need me to tell you?"

"The whole story. Your relationships with each of the girls. From the beginning."

Lawrence nodded. He leaned back in his chair.

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"I'd like a glass of water. And a pack of cigarettes. Reds."

Steven snapped his fingers. The door creaked open, and the League officer placed a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches on the table. Lawrence couldn't help but smile.

Steven returned the grin with a polite nod. Lance emerged from his corner and took up a chair next to Steven. Lawrence took a sip from the bottle as he fiddled with the plastic wrap on the cigarette pack.

Putting a bogey to his lips, he lit it and took a long drag. Following another drink of water, he began:

"It's a long story—"


	2. 2: Of Exams & Eevees

**CHAPTER TWO:**

Of Exams &amp; Eevees

I met Sabrina first, at the Academy.

As for why I went to the academy: my neurotic mother wouldn't let me go on a League Challenge at age ten, like most of the kids in my hometown of Pallet. "Who lets their kid fend for themselves at that age?" She would complain, "Most boys forget to put on their belt in the morning — who can trust them alone with Pokemon?". It's hard to deny that there's a certain wisdom in that. I imagine most kids would either be dejected or angry by that sort of response — I can't really say I was. However, mother dear spent most of my youth assuming that I actually was resentful and was just hiding it. That's one of the drawbacks of being a quiet kid. Because you're not screaming your weird intentions everyone assumes that you're silently plotting them.

Mum was a doctor. For humans, that is. She had done pretty well for herself — a real monument for feminism. The never-ending list of ailments and co-pay checks from Professor Oak must have been rather helpful as well. In some sort of shady deal, she had managed to secure from him an internship for me on my tenth birthday — seemingly in lieu of the Pokemon adventure that I never asked for. "This is much better than wandering around in the woods looking for bugs," she explained. I was in tacit agreement.

Working with Old Man Oak was actually pretty informative. Most of the work involved looking after and documenting Pokemon in his massive preserve. Trainers could only carry six Pokemon, of course, so the rest of their captures would be beamed over to Oak's lab for safe-keeping. Oak had a special passion for the unique and unusual, so the variety on the preserve was truly staggering. When I was fourteen, I had resolved that I'd like to own a Pokemon myself. No intentions past that. Just a pet, a friend of sorts. Judging from my experiences with different Pokemon in the preserve, I had made a wish-list, and presented it to mother-dear when she asked what I'd like for my fifteenth birthday.

"You want a Pokemon?!" She inquired in the most shrill of voices.

"Yes, please." I replied in the most meek of whispers.

"You want to become a trainer, don't you?!" was the inevitable follow-up.

Before I could even reply to the question, my mother was on the phone with Oak. Barraged with a torrent of questions that included the inquiry "are you corrupting my son?" he suggested that I attend the Pokemon Academy outside of Cerulean City. The Academy, as I'm sure you know, offers a number of tracks for their students — one research-based, a trainer's school, and a pre-medical program. My mother, desperate to avoid the eventuality of her son becoming a traveling vagabond, prepared the paperwork for a high-school transfer. I'd be entering as a first-year student. In three years I'd graduate with a fancy diploma.

Entrance into the programs are exam-based, including a written and practical test held at the school. Most kids who aren't local make the trip alone, staying in the academy dorms. My mother fully expected me to be accepted into the research program — as did I. Anatomy made me rather squeamish, so I failed the Med-Track exam by refusing to even attend. I did quite well in the research exams, though, scoring in the top fifth percentile. It was pretty inane stuff — evolution charts, basic archeological principles — that sort of thing. It seemed pretty removed from my desire to actually possess a Pokemon, however.

So, without my mother's knowledge, I signed up to take the Trainer's exam.

I was wooed by the prospect of attending the Trainer's school after reading a pamphlet in the school's lobby. The Academy promised a Pokemon to every student who was accepted — and the school accepted twenty-four students in each class. The Trainer's School was also the most competitive and prestigious of the programs. Each freshman class had over three-hundred applicants a year. It advertised itself as the fast track to a Gym Leader position. The brochure listed famous alumni: Claire in Johto, Flannery in Hoenn and Erika in Celadon were among the big names who had graduated from the school in the past decade. Blaine, the Leader on Cinnabar Island, was a member of the school's inaugural class thirty years ago.

I felt the prestige — by proxy — when I first walked up to the lobby's main desk and registered for the exam. As I signed my name on the myriad forms, the secretary, an older woman who was dressed in the black-and-white uniform of the Trainer's school, told me the exam's format in a dry monotone:

"First comes the written exam. It's pointless to study for it, because we change the format every year. If you're one of the top twenty-four scores, you're accepted pro-forma. The top twenty-four then proceed to the practicals: a ranked tournament that determines what Pokemon you will get. We reserve the right to drop you from the program at any time based on performance."

Perhaps the seriousness of the last sentence didn't hit me with the intended force, because I remember giving a big toothy grin as I handed her the forms. The woman simply took my form and guided me to an examination hall, where I took the written exam. Much to my surprise, it was nearly identical to the research exam — containing the same essential questions. A few were related to Pokemon moves, but utilizing context clues were easy enough. It's straight-forward enough to assume that Growl isn't damaging anyone and Hyper Beam is.

I woke up the next morning to take a look at the exam results, which were posted inside the main building. After seeing that I scored in the top tenth percentile on the Trainer's exam, I realized that I was "in". Not only was I in, but I had scored better than ninety percent of these "future gym leaders" that applied. I briskly returned to my room and proceeded to dance around in circles like some sort of lunatic. I was on the road to getting my first Pokemon, after all. Of course, final approval would inevitably rest with mother dear, but maybe — just maybe if I won the tournament…

* * *

"What the hell does any of this have to do with Sabrina?" Lance piped up, slamming a fist on the desk, and cutting off Lawrence mid-sentence.

"I figured I'd add some background to my circumstances for attending the academy." Lawrence replied.

"I'm pretty sure I know your mother better than one of my own gym leaders right now." Lance fired back.

Steven cleared his throat.

"The dossier we compiled on you details the vast majority of this. You did well in the tournament, making second place, so there's no need to describe it. It was bracketed, with you losing in the final round against a certain 'Bradley Draco'."

Lawrence nodded. "Pretty thorough. I wouldn't expect the police to dig that deep."

"They didn't." Steven replied. "The investigation was a private one."

Lawrence made a mental note of that fact. "Well, I suppose I'll pick it up at my match against Draco."

"Is it that significant?" Lance piped up again.

"It was the essential setup behind me meeting Sabrina in the first place."

Lance looked placated. "Fine, fine, pick up from there." He added.

Steven sealed the deal with an affirmative nod.

* * *

Well, like Steven said, I did very well. The tournament itself had us begin each battle with a random set of three Pokemon with a pre-determined move-pool illustrated by a video-board on the arena. The only people who knew what we'd be going in with beforehand were the five faculty judges who observed and proctored the match. My final fight with Bradley was held on their outdoor battleground. It was a pretty beaten-down arena, with equal parts grass and protruding rock covering the field.

Brad, as I'll call him from now on, was a Class-A douche. That's the kindest thing I can say about him. He grew up on the Cerulean waterfront in one of the richest families in Kanto. His grandfather was a big-time shareholder in Silph Co. Whatever Pokemon he was getting he could easily afford to buy on the market. And I only figured all this out because he was ramming it down everyone's throat at the tournament. I'm no street-rat, and I never wanted for anything in my youth, but I didn't bask in privilege quite in the way he did.

The tournament, I think, was just one of those situations where you've got a total asshole who's able to preform well thanks to some favorable match-ups on some low-level Pokemon. This is a guy who managed to score a Vupix, Pikachu and Onyx against some poor bastard who only got Paras, Pidgey and a Magikarp. And Brad still got himself into a position where it down to only the Onyx and the Magikarp. My matchup was another idiot's dream. Brad managed to get a Roselia, Seel and a Tyrogue against my underwhelming lineup of Geodude, Sandshrew and an Eevee.

The match began simply enough. He tossed out his Roselia — which according to the board, had Solarbeam as a move. It also possessed a Sleep Powder, Poison Powder, and Synthesis. A grass-type's solar-beam was super-effective against Sandshrew and Geodude, and would most likely knock out Eevee in a single strike even without the type advantage. After taking a moment's pause, I tossed out my Geodude. The Geodude happened to be holding a quick-claw. A first strike would be my only shot against a Roselia. With my moves being a thoroughly underwhelming combination of Rock Throw, Tackle, Defense Curl, and Bide — my only real option became very clear to me.

"The final match of the Academy tournament starts now: Begin!" The proctor called.

Brad and I shouted our orders at the same moment:

"Geodude, Bide!"

"Roselia, Solarbeam!"

Just as I expected.

My Geodude, thanks to the Quick Claw, was able to respond to my command with a heightened speed. It centered itself and blocked it's face with it's hands, lying motionless on the ground.

"Ha! What kind of move is that?" Yelled Brad from across the arena.

"Move Priority to Geodude!" The proctor noted.

"Hah, like it matters!" Brad laughed as his Roselia stored energy.

Brad watched with maniacal glee as his Pokemon gathered sunlight off it's petals and began aiming the solar energy at Geodude. My hands found their way into my pockets. I knew how this was going to end.

When his Roselia had finally finished storing energy, Brad commanded it to do the inevitable.

"Solarbeam!" He yelled, frothing at the mouth.

The energy ray hit Geodude, a static target, square in his — er, face. The Pokemon grimaced from the immense damage it took, but as expected, did not faint.

"What?!" Brad yelled.

"Geodude has held on thanks to it's ability 'Sturdy'." The proctor noted.

Now it was time. "Geodude, Release Energy." I commanded.

As if he was a primed bullet, Geodude fired himself full-speed directly at the ragged Roselia — her energy sapped from the recent attack. Dealing double the damage that the Solarbeam could muster, Roselia was knocked out in a single strike. Brad's jaw dropped. And from behind me, there were sounds of clapping. I turned to face the noise, seeing that a small crowd of about twenty had gathered behind me. They looked to be of an older sort, for the most part, and were clad in the black-and-white uniforms of the trainer school. These would be my future peers.

My eyes were drawn to a particular student. While most of the pack were demonstrating visible reactions of awe, surprise, and even _schadenfreude_, one girl seemed completely nonplussed. She was tall, and had long, raven hair. Under the traditional black jacket she sported a maroon turtleneck. Her ambivalence to the whole situation quickly soured into anger as she noticed me looking at her. A frown from her caused me to snap my head around and quickly reorient my attention to the battle.

"Roselia has been knocked out. Winner: Geodude."

Brad recovered quickly and tossed out his Seel. My only shot here was to hope that the Quick Claw would come through again, in spite of Geodude's weakened state.

"Geodude, Rock Throw!"

"Seel, use Aurora Beam!"

As the haggard Geodude attempted to gather a boulder from the field, the Aurora Beam hit the poor bastard at full blast. At that moment I felt rather foolish for not switching him out, though my alternatives weren't much better. He was my best shot at getting some quick damage, and with one hit point left, wasn't going to be of much use after. Still, the guilt was present.

"Geodude has been knocked out. Winner, Seel!"

I tossed out Eevee, fully expecting the poor bastard to offer me nothing in the way of support. It featured a rather paltry move-set, consisting of Baby-Doll Eyes, Quick Attack, Sand-Attack, and Double-Edge. My only shot here was going to be Double-Edge.

"Alright, Seel, hit it with another Aurora-Beam!"

"Eevee, Double-Edge!"

Much to my chagrin, the little guy charged headlong into the Seel's attack. But to my pleasant surprise, Eevee managed to cut right through it with his immense momentum. It was a special one indeed. The sheer momentum with which Eevee crashed into Seel sent the water-type flying backward, arguably with more force than Geodude's Bide Release — all the more impressive when you realize that Eevee's just flesh and fur, and Geodude's, well, a rock. Seel fainted without a second thought. Another cheer from the crowd erupted for the underdog Eevee. Hell, even I found myself clapping.

"Not bad, little guy."

The Eevee turned to me. It was kind of beaten up, the poor 'mon. Double-Edge tended to hurt the user almost as much as it hurt the enemy. It performed a little twirl, causing a few more cheers to emanate from the spectators.

I squatted down and held my hand out to it. The miniature bruiser trotted over happily to brush up against it.

"Seel has been knocked out. Winner: Eevee!" The proctor yelled, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly.

As the Proctor called the winner, Brad gave some sort of animal grunt and tossed out Tyrogue. Eevee noticed this and leapt back into the ring.

"Hold on there." I said, reaching for it's Pokeball. "Take a breather. You did great." The Eevee looked equal parts appalled and angry, but the Pokeball did it's job. I tossed out Sandshrew.

"Eevee has been switched for Sandshrew. Sandshrew forfeits a move." The proctor noted.

I looked up at the match-up. It wasn't favorable. Slightly more favorable than throwing Eevee to the mercy of Tyrogue's Karate Chop, but since that very same Tyrogue also had Ice Punch — one had to question just how favorable it really was. Sandshrew boasted a Sand-Attack, Slash, Dig, and Quick-Attack — a set that actually managed to be worse than Eevee's. Sandshrew was fast, maybe even faster than Tyrogue — but even a well-used Dig wouldn't delay the inevitably of Brad hammering the poor thing with Ice Punches. My best option was to go for a Sand-Attack/Slash combo. Of course this all presumed Sandshrew survived the first hit.

Which it didn't. The little rat went down with a thud from Tyrogue's first Ice-Punch. It wasn't even critical. The crowd behind me erupted in cheers at the one-hit KO. The mob is a fickle beast, after all, desiring blood and only blood.

"Sandshrew has been knocked out. Winner: Tyrogue." Came the Proctor's call.

With Sandshrew's miserable perfomance, my last option remaining was Eevee, severely battered from the last engagement with Seel. And much to my surprise, Eevee must have realized that, forcing it's way out of the Pokeball and into the Arena.

"Ha, ha! It wants to get wrecked!" Brad shouted.

I felt an odd cocktail of emotion wash over me. Pity was the first to hit: the little scrapper was stepping up gleefully for a beating against a type-advantaged brawler. And then, a sense of admiration: the spirit that Pokemon displayed had whipped a crowd into a frenzy and even melted away my apathy to this whole engagement. Strategically, this Pokemon hadn't a shot in the dark to defeat a full-health Tyrogue with a STAB attack like Karate Chop. But he was going to try regardless.

Without so much as a grace period, Brad revved up the assault: "Tyrogue, knock him down with Karate Chop!"

Tyrogue didn't charge so much as fly through the air at full force against Eevee. This was going to be a massacre. Knowing that Geodude and Sandshrew were mercilessly beat down in the same fashion, I wasn't about to let that happen again. The little guy didn't deserve it. I took a few furtive steps into the ring, positioning myself in between the oncoming Tyrogue and the battered Eevee.

The Tyrogue, in full charge, didn't bother to break as he crashed into me head on. Luckily, a baby pokemon doesn't hit with near as much force as an adult one. I took the blow standing up amidst a few gasps from the judges table. The arena — even Brad, went dead silent. I gathered back the wind that was knocked out of me.

"Yo, Proctor — I'm in the ring. That's a forfeit."

The Proctor, after visibly attempting to process the information, nodded. "Tyrogue wins by trainer forfeit!"

"Yeah! Victory!" Brad screamed while pumping his fist. The crowd responded in kind and a mob of students approached him and the winning Tyrogue. I turned back to the Eevee, rubbing off the pain in my gut.

"Don't be such an idiot."  
The Eevee let out a miniature roar coupled with an anxious whine.

"You would've gotten destroyed. Pick you battles, hombre."

The Eevee doth protested further.

"I'm not about to argue with you." I noted, tossing the Pokeball. The device wiggled a few times, obviously noting that the fellow was putting up something of a struggle. It was probably too battered to resist, though. Walking over to the Proctor's table, I returned the Pokeballs. I heard whispers from the Judges table. My breaking of the rules like was probably reason enough for an early expulsion. I swallowed a lump that was gathering in my throat — my pride, perhaps - and began to walk off the arena.

As I walked off the arena, I noticed the raven-haired girl standing in the same place as before — with the same ambivalent expression. I was about to pass by her when she spoke up.

"Hey." She called over from about a meter away.

My legs stopped moving.

"Hm?" I replied.

"You took that hit for the Eevee."

"Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

I frowned a bit at the question, taking the opportunity to consider it while assessing her features. She was definitely a senior. She looked older. Legal, even. She also possessed an adult sort of seriousness, much different from the ersatz sophistication I liked to espouse. After drawing in both the question and her looks, I found answer.

"Because I didn't want to see it hurt." The answer was straightforward enough.

"You wanted to protect it." She replied.

"I suppose I did."

She turned away from my gaze, looking out into the arena. We both stood there for a time. Or rather, she stood and I felt as if my legs were locked into place.

"You can go." She said, almost eerily.

Feeling a certain weight off my legs, I went.


	3. 3: The Faerie Queene

CHAPTER THREE:

**THE FAERIE QUEENE**

* * *

Lawrence paused for a moment to crush his first cigarette in an ashtray.

Taking note of the pause, Lance jumped on the opportunity to complain.

"We've been sitting here for twenty minutes and the most I know about you and Sabrina is that you two made goo-goo eyes on each other during exams."

"It's a slow-burner." Lawrence replied. "You wanted the whole story, you're getting it."

"Why don't you skip all the parts about you and jump straight to the Sabrina bits?" Lance asked.

"Awfully obsessed, aren't we?"

"Y-you piece of filth."

Lawrence smiled and took another swig of the bottled water.

"Good stuff. Not exactly Perrier, but—" Lawrence said, indicating his enjoyment of the off-brand mineral water. "You ever have a significant other, Lance?"

"What was that?"

"You know, Lance — ever dated, had a girlfriend, boyfriend, what have you?"

"I don't see how that matters."

"Well it's just your reasoning. 'Skip to the Sabrina bits' — you can't tell a love story with just one person."

"Are you saying—"

"Not quite, Casanova, I'm just generalizing. It happens on a lot of levels. Can't tell a good coming-of-age with only the protagonist. You need an antagonist, too— otherwise it won't carry any emotional weight. There's always got to be two."

"What won't carry any weight?"

"The climax, of course."

Before Lance could eke out a response, a P.A. system was heard starting up with it's traditional crackling sound.

"Champion Lance, a field agent has readied his report and is waiting for a video conference."

Lance pulled out a Clear-Com attached to his belt by a velcro.

"This is Lance. I'm already in a… conference. Who's on the other line?"

"The Agent is only identifying himself as 'Banana Hammock', Champion."

Steven suppressed a chuckle, while Lawrence found himself in the midst of a giggle-fit.

"B-Banana Hammock?!" Lawrence spat out between laughs.

Lance frowned. "Laugh it up, kid." He opened the com-channel again. "Lance here. Tell him I'm on the way."

"Leaving so soon, Lance?" Lawrence prodded, "we were just getting to the racy bits."

Lance clenched a fist.

"Listen, criminal," he bellowed, "there's a big world out there past your fucking high school days. Real people are doing real work out there. Saving the world. Beating the goddamn bad guys."

"Ah. well, don't let me keep you from your appointment with your Banana Hammock."

Steven covered his mouth.

"I-I'm sorry, Lance." Steven stammered, "I-I can take over from here."

Lance tried his best to keep composure. "Yeah, give me the abridged version when I get back." he mumbled as he opened the door.

Lawrence took the opportunity to light another cigarette.

"When did you start smoking?" Steven asked.

"Funny story behind that. I'll make sure to toss it in."

"That's fine. I don't really mind." Steven noted, leaning back into his chair. "I don't have any pressing tasks or anything. The way Lance was putting it, I figured this would be an all-day affair."

"I'll try to have you out by lunch."

Steven exhaled in tandem with a chuckle.

"Well, you better get to it, then."

* * *

After my loss in the final round, I returned to the dorm room a bit dejected and slightly confused. It didn't occur to me for a moment that I might be overreacting — because you know how things are that age. When you're fifteen, the smallest problem seems like it can shatter the Earth. Neglecting to realize that I finished second in a pretty prestigious tournament with zero experience, I instead fretted over my stepping into the ring in an official match — and the fact that I had been beaten by a total douche-bag in front of a crowd of peers. I spent most of the evening — as the final match had already been pretty late in the day — in bed, getting fitful bouts of rest in between periods of self-loathing.

I was jolted awake the following morning by a knock on my door. I had assumed it was for my temporary roommate, who had become quite the social butterfly during the pre-med examinations, but after opening my eyes and realizing that he hadn't even returned that night, I shuffled out of bed and answered the door. The Resident Assistant, nonchalant and equally groggy handed me an envelope. A lump in my throat formed as I mouthed "thanks" and closed the door. I imagined this was some form of demerit from my performance yesterday. Hands shaking, I opened the envelope. It was a short letter typed on Academy Letterhead. I still remember the words:

* * *

_Mr. Holden,_

_ In my position as a faculty judge, I couldn__'t help but notice your performance during the final match in the practical exam. I would very much like to speak with you for a short time, if your schedule allows. My office is in the Medical Hall, Floor B, Room 206._

_ Regards,_

_ Dr. Fuji_

_ Medical Faculty Emeritus,_

_ Pokemon Academy_

* * *

The tone of the letter put me more at ease, if only just slightly so. I dressed myself as well as I could and made my way over to the Medical Hall. It was the smallest and oldest-looking building on the campus. Red-brick, built in a Western Colonial style. It looked like something you'd see at an Ivy-League College in Northeastern Unova. I entered the building and wandered around for a bit — belatedly realizing that Floor "B" was actually the basement and not the second floor in an A-B-C pattern. The B-floor was incidentally where all the Medical Faculty kept their offices. Most of the people on the floor were walking around in lab coats, something with simultaneously impressed and terrified me in equal measure. Finally arriving at Dr. Fuji's corner office, I knocked on the door.

"Is that Lawrence?" came the call from behind the door.

"Yes, this is Lawrence." I replied.

"Well come on in, old boy! The door's unlocked."

I furtively entered the office, and was confronted with quite the sight. Piles and piles of "Pokemon Fan" magazines littered the office, and the back wall of the space was covered in X-Rays. I had experience with doctor's offices before, my mother was one, after all — and I knew some medical professionals were slobs, but this Fuji fellow took it to a new level. Speaking of which—

"Just a second, Lawrence — ah! Found it!"

Fuji appeared behind a pile of magazines on his desk. He was an old man — sporting a shiny bald head, and wearing an odd, out-of-place orange vest under a pink collared shirt. Pleated pants and sandals completed the weird ensemble.

"Sorry about the mess, old boy."

"It's not a problem, Doctor."

"Just call me Mr. Fuji. There's another Dr. Fuji in Kanto so it makes things difficult to tell apart. Good fellow. Involved in cloning research. Interesting stuff. I'm just a humble medical practitioner, you see."

The old man had a penchant to ramble, didn't he?

"Would you like a cup of tea, Lawrence? I've got a hot plate around here somewhere, I can boil some water…"

"No, that's alright."

"Well, would you like to follow me outside, then? I know it's a bit crazy in here with all these darn periodicals."

"Sure."

I followed Dr.-Mr.-Old-Man Fuji out of his office, down the hall, out a back door and into a small garden behind the main building. The garden was about ten-by-ten meters, and consisted of low-cut bermuda grass flanked by a perimeter of rose-bushes.

"I've found that bermuda grass keeps the nitrates in the soil nice and strong for the roses." He said. Not much of a horticulturalist myself, I took the information at face value.

"It's well-kept." I noted. It was all I could really offer.

"It's not originally my garden, of course."

Expecting the old man to launch into a story, I gave him the cue:

"It's not?"

"No. I'm just an emeritus here, you know. Not full-time. I have an orphanage back in Lavender Town where I take care of sick and abandoned Pokemon. I received my medical training here, at the academy, though. I was in the inaugural class, believe it or not. Are you familiar with Blaine, the Cinnabar Gym Leader?"

"I've heard. He went here too, right?"

"Yes, we were in the same class, all those years ago. I knew him well before the Academy, though. We grew up on Cinnabar together, him and I. We've traveled such different paths but we're still good friends."

"Did he plant the garden?"

"Close, but no. He and I, we had the same mentor. a certain Dr. Amie. He was hired to teach here all the way from Kalos — thousands of miles away when you had to make the journey by sea. When he started teaching here, he planted this garden. I remember what he used to say: 'There should be a secluded place where a trainer can befriend their Pokemon'. He foresaw that an age where technology demanded so much from us. So he planted this garden, a simple place where Pokemon and People can be friends. And when he passed on, I entrusted myself with keeping that dream alive."

"That's a beautiful story." I said. I felt it.

"I'm glad you appreciate it. But that's not the only reason why I brought you here."

Old Man Fuji fetched into his vest pocket, retrieving a Pokeball.

"Do you remember that Eevee you used in your final match?"

I certainly did.

"Of course." I replied.

"Well, that's my Eevee, you know."

"Huh?"

"I guess 'my' Eevee is the wrong word to use. I found it, you see, abandoned in the Pokemon Tower. Its parents were an Umbreon and an Espeon. I think they belonged to a trainer, once, because the Umbreon was given a burial in the Pokemon Tower. It's common for trainers to give their Pokemon headstones there, instead of simply cremating their ashes. The Espeon, probably the Umbreon's mate, brought the Eevee here in her mouth, and died at the headstone of her mate."

"No kidding."

"Pokemon have intuitive minds that are far stronger than humans. Especially Psychic Pokemon. I wasn't surprised. I patrol the tower every night to keep out the hooligans and vandals, and found the little Eevee there, guarding his fallen mum. Put up quite the fight, this little one. She's a real bundle of energy."

"He's a she?"

"Yup! Odd how those things work. It's usually the male Eevee that are more aggressive."

"Go figure."

"In any event, she ended up being too much for this old man, so I lent her to the Academy, hoping they'd find an outlet for all her pent-up energy. But I also hoped she might find a kind trainer someday to take care of her. And I think I had my wish granted yesterday."

"You're saying…?"

"Yes, old boy. I think you're a good match for one another. Take her. Train her."

He handed me the Pokeball.

This was it. This was going to be my first Pokemon. It was as if time was standing still. And, as if on cue, a loud musical dial-tone erupted from one Fuji's vest pocket, totally killing the whole mood.

"Ah! I have to take this. Take good care of her, old boy!" Fuji said, scurrying off back into the building.

Left alone in the garden with Fuji's Eevee in the Pokeball, it occurred to me that the logical thing to do would be to let it out. So I tossed the ball, and out it — or rather, _she_, went. She initially popped out with her back turned to me, but quickly picked up on my presence and turned 'round. I squatted down like last time, holding out my hand to her.

"You hear any of that from Fuji? I guess we're partners now."

Eevee sat on her hind legs in the bermuda grass, wagging her tail. I imagined that was her acknowledgment of the fact.

"We should play it smart from now on, you and I. No need to chase any windmills."

My idiomatic expression was probably lost on her. Her response was to simply angle her head to the side.

I really can't say what exactly compelled me to mimic her movement, but I did. Maybe I did it unconsciously, maybe it was some sort of spiritual deus ex machina. All I know is that a few moments later, the two of were bobbing our heads back and forth like a couple of true-to-form dumb-asses. I figure any medical staff looking out the window would have quickly diagnosed this Eevee and me as mentally disturbed.

In the middle of our little game, I heard a petite rumbling sound. Realizing that it came from Eevee, I remembered that I had one of mother's cupcakes in my lunchbag. I'm not a big fan of cupcakes, you see, primarily for aesthetic reasons, so I didn't think twice about fetching it from my bag and giving to the little 'mon, who scarfed it down happily. In a sort of "thank you", Eevee responded in it's trademark twirl, and ended it's little dance by looking up expectantly at me. Obviously egged on by the head-bob game, she was no doubt expecting me to pirouette.

"I'm not gonna twirl."

Eevee whined and twirled again.

"I said I'm not going to—"

Another twirl.

So I twirled. Well, twirl's perhaps the wrong word. Really just swiveled in place. But by the time I finished that little three-sixty, Eevee was glowing white.

"Holy Shit." Were the only words that came to mind.

And, so, after a brief light-show, I had a Sylveon. But here's the best part: I had no idea what a Sylveon was. The fairy-type wasn't really mainstreamed yet — it wasn't even recognized in most Kanto texts. The only "Eeveelutions" I knew of were the Stone-based ones and the Umbreon/Espeon duo. So now my Eevee was pretty in pink and I had no blasted idea what that entailed. For all I knew it could've been a genetic monstrosity. It struck that me that there was only one person I could really take this matter to—

"It's a Sylveon!" Oak exclaimed, elated. "I only know of a couple in existence, and now my former intern owns one! How on Earth did you get it?"

I gave Oak the whole story — how I applied for the Trainer's school clandestinely and got the Eevee from Dr. Fuji.

"And then what?"

"We played some games in a garden. Like, baby-games and she evolved."

"Well, it seems like you had a real stroke of luck." Oak paused to collect his thoughts. "Second place in the tournament, you said? That'll put you on the fast track to a Gym."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

I think I recall blushing a bit.

"I mean, it's not like it matters. I wouldn't expect mother to approve."

Oak frowned and paused for a bit.

"Do you think you'd like to be a trainer, Lawrence?"

I took a moment to absorb the gravity of the question.

"Professor, an hour ago I would've said I no. But now, yes, I really believe I do."

A smile crept across the old man's lips.

"I'll hash things out with your mother, then. Just… don't talk to her for a few days."

"Professor, I—"

"Just promise me something."

"Anything, Professor."

"You get a recess in the winter. Come back to Pallet and bring that Sylveon with you."

"Looking to run some tests, Professor?"

"But of course!"

The two of us shared a hearty laugh and ended the call on a positive note.

I was finally in the Trainer's School. And tomorrow was the first day of class. Tomorrow was also the first day I'd really "meet" Sabrina—


End file.
